


Back On Solid Ground

by gaialux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Blind Character, Disability, Epistolary, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5546630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't matter how far they run or how they were born, they were always destined to be heroes in one way or another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back On Solid Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clex_monkie89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clex_monkie89/gifts).



The world is dark.  
  
It's been dark for a long while, Dean notes, but pinpointing an exact moment or day has proven impossible. He thinks it must have been a couple of years back; starting first with blurring grey around the edges until the entire universe turned monochrome. He asks Sam about it one night, when they're stuck in front of the TV, not really watching anything at all.  
  
"What do you see?" he asks. A unique question with many possible answers, but Sam always catches on quick.  
  
"Bright," Sam says. "Blinding."  
  
They always were like the rising sun and the setting moon.  
  
...  
  
Ironically, it's Sam's world that turns pitch black first.  
  
Those bursts of brightness he soon describes as flames _jump_ into his eyes and Dean watches, in abject horror, as the tendrils climb against the whites and engulf Sam's pupils.  
  
Over as quickly as it began. Sam wakes up, smiles, and murmurs, "What happened?"  
  
For some reason he doesn't even notice and Dean doesn't have the heart to tell him. Sam's world was always his own.  
  
...  
  
They settle into this kind of routine. In a little house in a little town on a little side-street that is lucky to get one car passing through in the day, let alone the usual lightning strikes of headlights at midnight. Sam learns, quickly, how to navigate each piece of furniture and rise of carpet that Dean can't quite work out how to staple down correctly.  
  
Dean gets a job at the local mechanic's. No resume needed; just the switching of a clutch in the next car that comes in. The shop owner -- Robbie -- shakes Dean's hand with grimy fingernails, pushes back his battered baseball cap, and says, "You're hired, son."  
  
Following in Dad's footsteps. Just like a good son should always do.

 

  
...

  


...

  
The longer Sam and Dean stay in this town, the more things don't add up. Deaths plastered on newspapers weekly and Dean is just waiting for the splatter of blood to follow -- a true 3D experience for all to see, hear, smell, and taste.  
  
"Don't mull over it," Robbie says as Dean reads the paper at work one day. His fingerprints smudge the words into a blur until all Dean sees is _drowning_ and _no leads_. "Best we can do is make these cars safe."  
  
Robbie has a point. Dean folds the paper and sets back to work switching oil and tightening tires. The most common jobs are the simple ones, the ones people could do on their own. It's the whole ratio of time versus money that Dean's never really understood. Not that money was of high importance to him either -- there was something freeing about no ties or holds, just drifting with Sam and his car where the wind took them.  
  
"You done with me?"

Dean nods at Robbie and steps away from the Camaro. He twists the spanner in his hands until they're coated in a thick grease that, strangely, reminds him of home. Maybe not so strange -- Dean can remember the smell of grease mixed with coffee when his dad sat at the kitchen table every morning. A contrast to the floral-musk of his mother's perfume and the fresh mowed grass wafting through the windows. Ten years. He had ten years of that.  
  
Then everything went to hell and the world turned dark.  
  
"I got a couple junkers out back," Robbie says. "Said you were looking for some new side panels, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah." Scratches along the Impala's side that Dad never would have let happen. "You have an Impala?"  
  
"Might." Robbie smiles with a smirk. "You underestimate how big out _back_ is."  
  
Dean did. The carcasses of cars litter multiple acres once he steps past the sky-high iron fence. It's a haven for tetanus and sepsis. Good thing Dean's kicking around in steel-cap boots. Despite its size, it's surprisingly easy to find a beat up old Impala and scrap it for what Dean needs. Forty years and Baby was still going strong; that had to be a record or something.  
  
He works on her when days were slow -- or when he isn't quite ready to head home right off the bat. Things are getting strange in that house; a creak here or groan there in a way that isn't just a house settling. Sam never notices, but then again he's also recently gotten a job at the local library which really did coincide with those sounds.  
  
And, yes, apparently a blind person with no knowledge of braille can work at a library.  
  
But, inevitably, Dean has to return home and pour himself a scotch. Somewhere in the realm of a double shot when Sam's not home; a single when he is. The house creaks more when Dean's alone, so he doesn't mind halving the alcoholic content if it means some peace, quiet, and security.  
  
When he arrives home that night, Sam is already there. Sitting and listening to the TV. The local news is announcing yet another tragedy.  
  
_"The third drowning in two months has been reported in Lake Moor, including that of two teenagers. Police have yet to give further information but the lake has been closed off to the public. Back to you, Eli."_  
  
"Huh," Dean murmurs. "Guess Jericho High hasn't got a swim program in their cirriculum."  
  
"People have _died_ , Dean," Sam says. "Don't make a joke out of that."  
  
"Yeah, alright," Dean says. He goes to the fridge and pulls out two beers. Sits on the couch and hands one to Sam. "How was your day?"  
  
"Cleaning up books and busting kids making out in the rows - how about yours?"  
  
"Not much different."  
  
Dean picks up the remote and switches through the channels, trying to find something that didn't declare a death or attack. Surprisingly harder said than done. He manages to settle on a rerun of Family Feud and Sam makes no complaints so there it stays.  
  
...  
  
It happens slowly.  
  
A touch, a guide. Sam seems to need more and more help as time passes. Dean can't tell if his eyesight is worsening and Sam can't really explain it.  
  
"There's pricks of light," Sam said. "I think. Sometimes."  
  
It's a riddle; one Dean doesn't have the strength to solve.  
  
Sam begins to sleep on the couch night after night. The TV usually stays on -- late night news telling of crashes and drownings and whatever else can happen in this town with its limited population.  
  
Dean tries to sleep in his own bed, tossing and turning because sleep hasn't come easy for him in years. But, somehow, no matter how turned-down, the TV still whispers under his door and into his ears.  
  
_"Death."_  
  
_"Murder."_  
  
_"Ruled accidental."_  
  
More nights than not, Dean ends up on the couch. His hand resting on Sam's knee and, just sometimes, his thigh....  
  
Robbie is dead.  
  
Dean went into work on Monday and found him there. Bloodied. A shattered mirror thrown over his body and no other evidence in sight. Dean's mind goes blank and his stomach twitches, rolling over as he staggers toward the body. _Shouldn't touch anything, shouldn't tamper_. But he can't help running his hands over Robbie's red-splattered face and feeling for a pulse.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Nothing.  
  
...  
  
Ever since he was a kid, Dean would read comic books about superheroes. _Batman_ was his first. Pouring through a battered copy of _Batman the Brave and the Bold_ he picked up at a flea market when he was about ten. For the next couple of years, he searched through every garage sale, used bookstore, and library for more of them. A few showed up. He'd since lost them all.  
  
The point, however, still remains: Dean knows superheroes. His childhood began with them.  
  
...  


 

  
...

Batman.

Superman.

Spiderman.

The top three by moviegoer standards -- a 'man', two animals, one the epitome of heroics. Why can't Dean be just Dean? Dean and Sam. Figuring out how things went to hell and stopping them.

However they can.

...

Robbie's funeral has a total of three people: Sam, Dean, and a long-lost cousin who looks bored once he finds out the will left him nothing. Dean gets the junkyard. He and Sam move there soon after.

Sam might be blind, but everything comes easy enough to him. He adapts, walking around the corpses of cars and the piles upon piles of car manuals and textbooks and old literature Robbie must have read in his spare time. There's only one bedroom suitable for sleeping in, and it hardly fits their two twin beds. So they ditch them and share the queen already there.

It doesn't seem strange, even though it should.

...

  
...

A storm brews throughout December.

It starts with a wicked wind that screams through the trees and finds its way into every hollow nook of the backed-up cars outside. Then it creeps inside, under the doors and through the thinning window insulation. By the time another drowning comes along, the rain has fallen so hard and fast it's impossible to see more than three feet into the distance."We need to try," Sam says. "It's not like I need to see anyway - come on. Those people need us."

"I'm not risking you getting hurt," Dean says. He stands as a barricade between house and nature.

"But you're willing to let people die." It's not a question. It's a steely warning of those consequences Sam and Dean have unsuspectingly made themselves responsible for.

  
"Not you," Dean says. "I'm not willing to let you die."

"If you don't want to go, I will." Sam reaches out but misses the door handle, colliding with Dean's wrist instead. His fingers wrap around in a way that seems reflexive and Sam draws in closer. "Let me leave, Dean. I know what to do."

"No." Dean's voice sounds strained with fear. He knows Sam will pick up on it.

Sam steps closer. They're almost nose to nose. Sam has to know that the distance between them has dropped away, Sam's shoes pressing against Dean's sock-covered toes. When his hand tightens on Dean's wrist he manages to close all distance.

"Let me," Sam says.

"No."

He's right up in Dean's face. Eyes wild and nostrils flared. It hurts Dean to see his brother like this. To deny him something or ruin that moral compass which has always been so strong in Sam's heart.

"I'm not losing you," Dean says. "There's no way. You just gotta accept that."

Sam's hand clenches in frustration, but Dean's not giving in. Sometimes he wishes Sam was a kid again so he could hold him and keep him safe. But there's some other part, awakened only when they made it to that new house that likes Sam now. Strong, brave, secure, and confident in all things. Sam's also warmer now -- the feel of his fingertips creeping up Dean's arm.

Their lips are together before Dean's even consciously aware of it. Sam doesn't push away. There was some ill-twisted turn of fate that was going to make this happen. Somehow, some way. It just so happens the puzzle pieces fit together on this day.

They tumble back onto the bed, thoughts of floods and saving people momentarily forgotten for the night.

...

The next morning, Dean wakes up to the sound of the shower and the memories of last night flooding through him. He should be afraid. Disgusted, even. And maybe those feelings will catch up to him soon enough -- but right now he feels almost...calm. Okay with things. Like his only mission is to get back out there and help as many as he can.

Dean swings himself off the bed with its twisted sheets and into the kitchen where he flicks on the coffee pot. There, next to it, is a post-it note scrawled in what seems to be Robbie's handwriting. Dean's stomach twists and heart draws heavy. That death still rocks him. He hasn't seen the note before, had Sam somehow found it? Dean shakes his head; it doesn't really matter. He picks up the note and reads what Robbie felt eerily attuned to write before his death.

...

  



End file.
